Huang Tianfang and Wang Qiang's access to cigarettes was no secret. They were never subtle about it, smoking openly in front of the residents who were working. It didn't take long for everyone to figure out that Zhang Yi was the one supplying them.
Soon, other building leaders with nicotine addictions began demanding that Zhang Yi bring them cigarettes as well.
Zhang Yi hesitated for a moment, then smiled. "Supplying that many people might be a little difficult."
The leaders panicked immediately.
"Zhang Yi, you can't play favorites!""We're not asking for much—just one pack a day, that's all!""This is my life's wish!"
Zhang Yi sighed as if reluctantly giving in. "Alright. I'll do my best. Starting tomorrow, I'll provide cigarettes to any building leader who wants them."
Seeing that, even the non-smokers started making requests.
"I don't smoke, but I love betel nut. Can you get me some?""I want alcohol—even the cheapest rotgut will do!"
Zhang Yi kept up the helpless expression. "Alright, alright, I've noted everything. I won't play favorites. Everyone gets something."
Satisfied, the leaders took their supplies and left.
After they were gone, Li Chengbing, Jiang Lei, and the others were furious.
"Brother Zhang, you're being way too soft on them!""Giving them food is already a huge favor. Now they're asking for more and more!"
But Zhang Yi only said calmly, "Their requests aren't unreasonable. I can't play favorites. It's fine. Let it be."
The men stared at him as if he were a stranger. They had never imagined that the ruthless, merciless Zhang Yi could suddenly become so soft.
But the supplies were Zhang Yi's to obtain. They had no choice but to stay silent.
After handing out the rations, Zhang Yi returned home. He took a hot shower, changed into pajamas, and lay comfortably on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.
"It's about time."
The infighting in the other buildings had already caused massive casualties. More than four hundred people had died outright, and hundreds more had been injured—most of them badly enough that they would never recover, even if they survived.
That morning, Zhang Yi had walked through the estate and counted the able-bodied residents. Roughly seven hundred remained.
And with cigarettes and alcohol as bait, he had successfully lured out all the building leaders.
The time to close the net had come.
Zhang Yi did not intend to wait any longer. The buildings would not erupt into major conflict again so soon, and if he delayed, the food he gave them would only restore their strength and make them harder to deal with later.
"Tomorrow."
Zhang Yi narrowed his eyes, and a cold glint of killing intent flashed across them.
The next day, Zhang Yi left the estate as usual, telling no one—not even Uncle You—about his real plan. The operation was too important. One mistake would only make things more dangerous. He trusted no one.
He went straight to the supermarket and gathered large quantities of food—mostly steamed buns, dumplings, and packaged bread. This time, he picked better-quality food than usual, and a lot more of it.
"Let them enjoy a proper last meal. I'm being merciful enough."
Once the food was piled high, Zhang Yi took out the rat poison he had stored in his space: a colorless, tasteless powder lethal in even tiny amounts. The slightly stale, discolored food was perfect for hiding it.
He put on the gas mask he had found at the military camp and carefully sprinkled the poison over every item. It took him half an hour to do it alone.
"Wang Qiang and Huang Tianfang might test the food for poison," he thought, "but they're too greedy to share cigarettes and alcohol with the others. Heavy smokers and drinkers always lower their guard around those things. That's where I'll strike."
He then took out several packs of cigarettes, tore off the plastic wrapping—just as he had done before when giving them to Wang Qiang so it wouldn't look suspicious—and carefully inserted poison into the tobacco.
The liquor required more work. He dissolved the rat poison into the alcohol, then used a syringe to inject it through the bottle caps. It was crude, but by the time he returned, it would already be close to night, and the drinkers would never notice the tiny flaw.
Two hours later, Zhang Yi packed everything onto the back of his snowmobile.
The snowfall was light, but the wind still cut sharply. He leaned against the wall of the mall, lit a cigarette, and took small, careful puffs. Drawing too deeply in the cold could freeze his lungs.
"Maybe today is the end. Everything's gone too smoothly."
Everything the others had done had gone exactly as he predicted. But that perfect compliance left him uneasy.
It's too easy. These people aren't fools. How could I manipulate them this smoothly?
He let out a self-mocking laugh, then narrowed his eyes.
"This false peace is only temporary. They're not stupid. They'll come after me eventually. Are they just biding their time, waiting for the right moment?"
Is there even a mole in Building 25? he wondered. I never found out who it was—or whether they're even still alive.
He asked himself the questions, but no answer came.
He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't Conan. He didn't solve mysteries with deduction.
But in this apocalypse, he had something better.
His fortress. His guns.
Zhang Yi ground out the half-smoked cigarette beneath his boot.
"No matter what you're planning," he thought coldly, "against absolute power, every scheme is meaningless."